


A Broken Man's Need

by graphic_winged_observer



Series: Within the Walls of 221b [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Switching P.O.V.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graphic_winged_observer/pseuds/graphic_winged_observer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS - It's been three years since those words first graced the London tabloids. John is older now and much worse off than before he first met Sherlock Holmes. But how will he react when this great man re-enters his life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Broken Man's Need

**Author's Note:**

> The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I only entertain this absurd idea.

“How are you feeling today, John?” Ella asks quietly. I stare out the window, the objects outside blurred by the sheet rain. “John?” she presses.  
  
I close my eyes, shaking my head slowly. “I’m not well, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I finally say after a few silent minutes. “It’s been just over three years...,” I pause, swallowing hard; willing myself to not cry about it all again.  
  
“I realize it’s hard, John. Loosing a close and dear friend takes a severe toll on us all, but you do have to work passed it. Have you been keeping up with your blog?” she questions. I give an Are-You-Serious? sort of laugh.  
  
“I haven’t opened my blog since he.... I just can’t.”  
  
“Have you been eating?”  
  
I shake my head. “I can’t seem to find much of an appetite, though Mrs. Hudson does force me to eat at least twice a week. She says I can’t survive on his diet, I’m not him.” I lower my eyes to Ella’s scribbles, casting them away when she looks back at me.  
  
“Sleeping?” I shrug in a non-committal sort of way. She’s scribbling again, more medications will be coming my way. “Have you been seeing anyone? Romantically or otherwise?”  
  
“I’ve seen Lestrade a few times over the years. I...um,” I pause again, thinking of last week when Greg and I had gotten completely plastered and began remembering everything wrong with Sherlock until we cried. “I think his death hit Lestrade as hard as it hit me, possibly harder. He did know him longer after all.”  
  
“John, you come here three times a week and tell me the same things over and over. After three years, you’re still not willing to talk to me about him. Why?” Ella’s shorthand has improved greatly over the past eighteen months, but I can still read it easily. My face turns stoic at the words written on the paper in her lap.  
  
It’s several quiet moments before I speak again. “Because...I don’t want to believe it. If I believe he’s really dead, then...Moriarty will win. I can’t let him win.” I hear the bitterness in my voice, something I’ve been trying to suppress since his fall.  
  
“It’s fact, John. A fact that you need to accept,” she says, closing her notebook and placing it on the side table. Her tone enrages me so, that I push on my walking stick and begin limping away from her. “John, I’m serious. The sooner you accept it, the better off you’ll be. The quicker you can recover. This self destructive path is only going to hurt you in the long run and those who care about you. John?” Her tone is begging. I stop but can’t turn to face her. My brain knows what she’s saying, but my heart refuses to listen.  
  
“Good-bye, Doctor,” I curtly state, exiting her office and storming through the reception. I can feel their stares as I limp through the front door, into the driving rain. I turn for home and walk several streets before stopping under an overhang and pulling my mobile from my pocket. I stare at the blank text box for several moments before my fingers graze over the keys. I read it over once before sending it along.  
  
 _Sherlock Holmes watches John from a fair distance; noting that not only had the limp returned, but that it was far worse than when he had first met his friend. Three years has been so long for both men and; for once, Sherlock is at a complete loss as to how he should re-approach John.  
  
He reaches into his jacket pocket when his mobile sounds at him from within it‘s woolen sanctuary. Sherlock stares at the text for a long while, unaffected by the chill of the wind and rain. He looks up to the spot where John had just been._  
  
Ella told me to accept that you’re dead. Should I? - JW  
  
 _“I’m sorry, John,” he whispers before hailing a cab. “Two two one b Baker Street, please,” Sherlock relays to the cabbie. With his lonely work now finished, it’s time to restore balance to the universe. The cab ride feels quicker with his mind preoccupied by John.  
  
“Baker Street,” the cabbie says, startling his passenger. He hands the bills over and steps from the vehicle. Sherlock stands outside his flat for several uncertain minutes, still unclear as to how he should approach the situation. He’s had a number of different scenarios running through his head the past couple days. Some of them are quiet, most are loud and painful. He’s expecting the latter. Sherlock looks to the windows of his once flat with a sort of longing. He has truly missed Baker  
Street, Mrs. Hudson, his violin, and John Watson, his only friend.  
  
“God’s sake, Sherlock, it’s just John...after three years, it’s just John,” he says to himself before finally pushing his way in after fifteen minutes in the London fog._  
  
“I think she needs to up my dosage again,” I say, hearing my friend climb the stairs to our flat. The same slow, methodical steps he always took, especially when he was thinking. I don’t look up when the door creaks open.  
  
 _Sherlock glances around the flat. Nothing has been changed, nothing has been moved. The only glaring difference is that a thick layer of dust has settled on everything. His eyes finally fall upon his friend. He’s sitting on the arm of his chair; the only piece of furniture clear of dust, with his “good” leg under him, his foot resting on the seat, much the way Sherlock himself would sit when he was agitated. He still clutches the walking stick, leaning upon it heavily._  
  
“John,” he says to me, his voice sounds strained, but full of relief. I give a tired giggle, finally looking to him.  
  
“You still sound the same,” I say, pushing myself up from my chair. I look him up and down, it’s no surprise he’s dressed in the exact same outfit he fell in and he’s smiling at me.  
  
 _The smile fades from Sherlock’s lips as John shakes his head sadly and limps into the kitchen. “John?” he inquires, as his friend makes for the cabinet above the sink. Sherlock’s eyes widen at the sheer number of bright orange anti-depressant and antipsychotic medication bottles that glare mockingly at him.  
  
“John--I’m sorry. I didn’t mean this. This was supposed...,” he pauses, his voice failing him for the first time in ages. He takes several deep breathes to steady himself, he needs to make it through this in one piece, he cannot afford to fall apart now. “This was supposed to be better for you,” Sherlock confesses. This encounter isn’t going like any he had envisioned._  
  
I swallow several of the pills in one gulp before turning back to him. “She told me to accept it today. One of many times actually. I couldn’t...still not sure I can. Not since you’re standing here. I can’t keep seeing you like this, you know? I think remembering you with Greg is enough. It should be enough for me!” I shout, stamping my cane to the floor.  
  
“John!? Are you alright up there?”  
  
 _“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson,” he calls to their landlady. Sherlock grins at the sound of her voice, but can’t relish in the sound because John is speaking again, causing Sherlock’s stomach to churn uncomfortably. “I’m just...arguing with him again,” he says in a flat tone that causes the detective to stare at him in utter shock.  
  
“Oh. Okay, John. Just try not to break anything this time, eh?” Sherlock’s head whips back to the door. Mrs. Hudson’s calm tone tells him this has happened before, as do the pill bottles in the cabinet. He looks back to John, worry and confusion thick in his features. Sherlock hasn’t seen his friend this close since he left Bart’s three years ago and his brain suddenly feels sluggish as he tries to comprehend the scene unfolding before him. His breathing suddenly starts coming back to him as Sherlock realizes for several minutes he’s forgotten to breathe. John’s manner is disturbing him.  
  
“John, it’s me, I’m--I’m here.” There’s a plea in Sherlock’s voice that neither party has ever heard before._  
  
“Of course it’s you!” I half-shout, limping back to the sitting room. “It’ll always be you. No one else I know has died recently.” I flop back into my chair with a huff, pull my mobile, find the appropriate number, and listen to the ringing; hoping it will drown him out, even though he’s not doing or saying anything at the moment.  
  
“I’d like to speak with Ella please.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, listening to the hold music. I hear the shuffle of his coat and try to ignore the fact that he’s stepped closer.  
  
The music clicks off and suddenly her voice is on the other end of the line. “Hello?”  
  
“Hello, Ella.”  
  
“John?” Her tone is genuinely surprised, I don’t exactly blame her. “I didn’t expect to be hearing from you, not after what happened.”  
  
“I know. Listen, I’m sorry for the way I stormed out of there.”  
  
“I do understand, John. You were closer to him than you’d rather admit.”  
  
A moment of silence hangs between us. “Yes I was. You can’t...couldn’t help but be attracted to a man like him. Even if you’re not into that sort of thing. But I’ve come to the realization that you are right. I do--need to accept it. I’m not sure how ready I am to completely accept it though.”  
  
“That’s alright, John. The point is you’re finally making the effort to take that giant first step in the direction of recovery. This is extremely good--.”  
  
In a second her voice becomes more than I can handle and I interrupt her with, “I need a larger dosage.”  
  
She pauses for a long time before speaking again. “Are you sure?” Her voice is hesitant. I know what drugs I’m on and the side effects of them all, but I know for this to actually work I need a stronger dose.  
  
“I’m positive. I know to finally accept this, I need to stop seeing him.”  
  
“Alright, I understand, John. I’ll have the prescription ready for you anytime you want to come in and get it.”  
  
“Thank you, Ella. I’ll be by tomorrow to pick up the prescription.”  
  
 _Sherlock follows the flow of conversation with a sudden level of clarity. The medications, John’s distance since he entered the flat, Mrs. Hudson’s calm reaction to talk about Sherlock. He watches John replace his mobile before speaking. “You think I’m a figment of your imagination?” his whispering voice quivers with the question.  
  
John turns his head toward Sherlock, but does not look at him. “Of course you are.” Then after a long pause, he adds, “Sherlock Holmes is dead.”_  
  
I’ve said this before, but there’s a finality to my voice that I’m not entirely prepared for. I lean my stick against the chair and repeat my last line in a sigh, “Sherlock Holmes is dead.” I reach for the paper, open it to a random section and begin reading.  
  
“John,” it says to me again. “You really think I’m not here!?” There is an urgency in the apparition’s voice that unsettles me. “John!?” It crosses into my view, worry and uncertainty littering its features.  
  
“Of course he’s not here. He’s dead. I watched him fall.” My voice cracks as I speak, but I fight to keep it together through the years of anger flowing out of my mouth now. “I watched them take his body away. I watched them lower him into the ground. And I have visited his grave many times in the past three years. Nothing I say, nothing I do is going to bring my friend back. Nothing,” I rant, tears welling in my eyes. I sniff, brushing the emotion from my eyes.  
  
 _In light of this new data, Sherlock’s brain locks up, he forgets to breath again, and he feels his heart skip several beats. After a few tense moments, Sherlock begins to work again; though the shock in his mind takes several minutes to sort through. How is he supposed to make John understand that he really is standing in their sitting room? Determination turns his features to stone, force it is then. He rips the paper from John’s hands; tossing it aside, kneels beside the chair and holds his friends face in his gloved hands; forcing John to look him in the eyes.  
  
“I. Am. Real. I’m here, John. I faked my death for you. For Mrs. Hudson. For Lestrade. I had no choice. I am so sorry for what it has done to you, my friend,” Sherlock confesses, a few tears streaming down his long face._  
  
I pull my head from its hands and push myself from the chair once again; grabbing my cane as I hobble away. “I really do need a larger dose, you’re becoming more corporeal by the day.”  
  
“John, I’m alive,” it shouts to me. My grip tightens on the thin piece of metal in my hand as a sudden rage builds in me.  
  
“No.”  
  
“I’m sorry, I had no choice.”  
  
I shake my head. “No.”  
  
“I’m standing right here, John,” it pleads.  
  
“No!” I swing my cane through the air, breaking the glass divider to the kitchen.  
  
“John,” it whispers.  
  
“NO!” I yell, turning to my imagination. “He is dead and it is beyond all sense of cruelty for you to say anything otherwise,” I say through gritted teeth. “My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead. Do you understand that!?”  
  
 _“But I’m right here, John!” Sherlock yells. John’s ignoring facts; something he’s always done, but Sherlock does notice the danger of the walking stick. Anger has always been one of John’s weak points. Get him angry, make him take a swing, then maybe he’ll finally understand._  
  
“No you’re not!” I shout, swinging the metal through the air once again and gasp when it collides hard with a solid bicep.  
  
 _Sherlock recoils, cupping the already forming welt on his arm. “Ah! Good, John. Very good.” he says turning from his friend slightly.  
  
“You--you‘re...,” John begins to stutter, unable to comprehend the scene around him as real.  
  
“At least you get it now.” He winces, the welt is going to be a perfect bruise in about two minutes. “I had to faked my death, John. You want to punch me? Punch me. It’s no less than I deserve for all the shit I’ve put you through.” Sherlock opens his arms and steels himself for whatever onslaught might be coming his way._  
  
My breathing is rapid as I take in all the information. My mind races through all the things I could do or say to him at this very moment. Unable to pick one, I opt for two. I reel my clenched fist back and clock Sherlock in the jaw; nearly breaking two of my fingers in the process. “Three fucking years!” I yell as my friend collapses to the floor, holding his sore jaw.  
  
“You couldn’t have let me know!?” I swing my cane down, narrowly missing Sherlock’s skull by three or four centimetres. He casts his eyes to my stainless steel stick with a fearful gaze. I wrench it up from the newly created dent in the floor and fling it at the wall still adorned with his smiley face.  
  
 _“Dammit, Sherlock!” John shouts, stomping away from his flat mate; his limp suddenly gone. Sherlock stands, noticing the cane is half out of the plaster.  
  
“Moriarty was going to kill you. He was going to kill all my friends unless I jumped. Unless his assassin saw me jump. I did it for all of you,” he admits, his voice cracking slightly. He tries massaging his jaw, but it only intensifies the pain.  
  
“You could have found some way to tell me. I would have kept your bloody secret,” John says heatedly, his breath coming to him in great huffs.  
  
“You would have kept something like that from Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson? Or Molly? You’re a terrible liar, John. Can you honestly tell me that you’d’ve been able to look into their mourning faces, knowing full well I was alive, and still have been able to tell them that you believed I was dead?”_  
  
I look to Sherlock, still quite angry. I storm around my chair several times, trying to calm my heart just a little. “I hate you...so bloody much right now,” I finally admit, wanting to punch him at least once more.  
  
“I know, John. I’m sorry,” he sighs. A long moment of silence passes between us, I know the both of us wondering what’s going to happen next. I see Sherlock breathing irregularly and think that this is just as hard for him as it is for me.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeats. The tone of his voice aggravates me, as if saying sorry makes up for the last three years of my life. I jog to him and; taking a chunk of his wool coat in each hand, pull his face close to mine.  
  
“I should hit you until you feel as bad as I have.” He nods at me, as if he had been expecting me to say it. “As bad as Mrs. Hudson has felt. And Lestrade. And Molly. But, sod it, I can’t.” I rest my head on his chest, tears flowing freely. “I missed you, Sherlock.”  
  
 _John lets his arms find their own way around Sherlock’s lithe frame. The consulting detective places his arms around the army doctor, drawing him into an unnaturally tight embrace. They stay this way for what feels like eons; but isn‘t nearly long enough, the comfort of his friend dulling the pain in Sherlock’s arm and jaw. The sound of feet on the stairs causes the flat mates to break apart.  
  
“John, I heard you hitting things down--stairs.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice fails her as she lays her eyes on Sherlock Holmes.  
  
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Would you put the kettle on?” Sherlock smirks._  
  
~FIN~


End file.
